All Dressed With Yew
by chaletian
Summary: King Henry informs his brother John of Falstaff's death.


**All Dressed With Yew**

**by Liss Webster**

The candles are guttering low when the large chamber allotted to the King by the French Chamberlain finally begins to empty, and Westmoreland, Exeter, Warwick and the others say their farewells. Eventually, Humphrey, too, leaves, giving both his elder brothers a hearty clap on the shoulder in celebration.

"A good outcome," says John, leaning back against silk cushions and marvelling at the difference between their current situation and the brutal march that had led them to the fields of Agincourt.

"Aye," says Hal briefly, legs crossed, gaze directed into the fire.

"And you'll take the princess to wife?" John tries again. It is not like Hal to be so silent and still, even now he is the great King Henry and no more Prince Hal of Eastcheap.

Hal shrugs, a small, careless gesture. "Like enough. It's a wise marriage. My son shall be king of France."

"You have no fondness for her?"

Hal looks up at this, amused out of his contemplation. "John! I had scarce thought you capable of such romantical imaginings! I have met her but once."

"Love has flourished on an acquaintance as small," says John, more to continue the conversation than from any conviction.

"For poets and fools – and young princes, perhaps," says Hal firmly, "but not for any man of sense. But we shall be married anon, and I daresay I will develop an affection for her."

"Nay, your Majesty, I protest!" John cries, his hand against his heart. "Such _romantical_ utterances do overcome me!"

Hal laughs, surprised. "When did you become such a jester, John? I confess, I had not thought it of my most sober brother."

John shakes his head. "Acquit me, Sire, of that, I beg you! I am not one for poetry or singing or sighing, or the paradoxical statements of a good fool. But I see something troubles you."

"Just news I heard from the camp," says Hal, good humour once more fled.

"Not more dead than had been reported?"

"You could say it. One more of the dead than reported."

John frowns, confused. "Nobody of name, Sire; all are accounted for since the fight. Who was it that causes such a melancholy? Not from the French side, surely?"

"Certain not! Nay, he always fought for me. But not this time." John watches as Hal slouches back in his chair, heels digging into the wolf's hide on the floor, one hand playing with the seal ring that sits on the other, and is reminded of the way Hal was wont to sit in their father's presence.

"Sir John?" he ventures. Hal casts him a quick, rueful glance.

"Ever perspicacious, John. Fat Jack himself, dead in a tavern in Plymouth, or so I hear told. Doubtless before he could pay his shot."

"Doubtless," John agrees. Sir John Falstaff's habits were well-known to all those who had travelled with him in the north.

"He would be sorry to have missed this fight," continues Hal, and John raises a eyebrow.

"I did never _see_ the rogue fight," he says sceptically.

Hal smiles. "Oh, but think how he would have enjoyed the opportunity!" He makes an expansive gesture. "I dare swear, had he been on the field, we would have heard nought but how he slew a dozen – nay, a score! – of the fiercest Frenchman with ne'er a pause for breath, impaled half a dozen more on but a single thrust of his sword, torn down at least a quartet of French standards, and rescued the both of us from an early grave! Aye, and he'd have the battle scars to prove it, to boot!"

"He was ever a liar," says John.

"That he was, but honest in it, for we all knew him." He sighs. "I treated him ill – but then, so did he me. Such aspersions on my character you never heard!" He considers this, then flashes a quick grin. "Unless, of course, it be from our noble father."

"I am sorry for your grief," says John stiffly, and a little unwillingly, for he did never approve of his brother's friendship with the ruinous Falstaff, but Hal shakes his head dismissively.

"What might be forgiven in a prince was never to be permitted a king, and well I knew it." His voice is light but John can taste bitterness in it. "Alas, Sir John! He was ever doomed to be betrayed by me."

There is no reply to be made to this, and the two men sit in silence as first one, then a second, candle burns to the bottom of its wick and flutters out of existence.

"France will be a struggle to hold," says Hal eventually, leaning forward, once more the king, "but it is a battle worth the waging."

"We'll keep hold of it," says John, and Hal nods, then stands, watching as John follows suit. "Your marriage will be of assistance there, if you do not dislike it."

Hal shook his head. "She is a sweet lady. Beautiful too. Our conversation was not displeasing." He slaps John on the back as they head for the door. "And I think it is time for me to take a wife."

"Well then, God give you happiness, your Majesty."

"Amen, Brother Bedford. Amen."


End file.
